


Cosy

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dancing, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Friends to More Than Friends, Knitting, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 22, POV Inanimate Object, Pining Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Tea, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Mrs. Bee, the tea cosy of 221B, saved the day. POV Inanimate object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



Hello, dearie!

It’s [Mrs. Bee](http://www.yarnspirations.com/patterns/beehive-tea-cozy.html), tea cosy of 221B Baker Street.

Are you gasping?

Put your feet up and rest a bit, and we’ll have a nice chat.

The girls are out. Mr. Teapot and I were serving them up a fine cuppa when it’s ‘Beep!’ and ‘Case!’ and the Fair One can barely drop the cups in the sink before she’s chasing the Dark One down the stairs.

They have names, of course, but not _real_ names. It’s doubtful that their poor mothers actually christened them ‘John’ and ‘Sherlock.’ Sometimes I call them Chamomile and Lady Grey, but that’s just when I’m joking with Mr. Pot.

What do I see? At times, very little, love. With all the rushing about the girls do, I spend most of my day in a drawer, having a kip. And I’ve got the drawer to myself these days. [Snail](http://laughingsquid.com/a-tea-cosy-that-turns-a-teapot-into-an-adorable-snail/), [Sheep](http://www.craftsy.com/project/view/sheep-tea-cosy/61375), and [Woman’s Hour](http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/3YSbL6jPGpHb8Yzw3mV5QdH/knitting-radio-4) have all gone to the Great Hob in the Sky, but I’m still here, watching, listening, and, of course, keeping the tea warm.

Why am I the one left? Because the Dark One never reaches for me to put out a fire or mop up a ghastly spill. I have never been conscripted into volunteering for one of her experiments. Why? Pure sentiment, as she says. Because while the Fair One may be in charge of all things tea-related, it’s the Dark One who fashioned me, for a very special reason, one morning…

* * *

“Knit, knit, purl, _fuck_!”

“Sherlock! What are you doing?”

“Taking your advice, Mr. Hudson. A last effort to prevent John from leaving.”

“I’ve never seen you knit.”

“YouTube.”

“What is it? A hat?”

As if! But it was early minutes then, and he didn’t look as if his eyesight was quite good, so he’s forgiven.

“Tea cosy. To go with the new pot. You said a homemade touch might be more persuasive.”

That’s when I heard Mr. Teapot’s distinctive snore for the first time.

“John’s not really moving out, is she?”

“Her recent browser history and text messages sent last night to Bill Murray and Mike Stamford inquiring about ‘leads’ suggest that she is.”

“Well, she has had rough couple of weeks. First, being mistaken for you and kidnapped and roughed up.”

“And rescued! By me!”

“And the split with the nice doctor.”

“Sarah! Good riddance!”

“Then there was the business with Harry.”

“I did not cause her sister’s relapse.”

“Of course not, but your observations when she stopped by weren’t exactly _uplifting_ , now, were they?”

“I merely pointed out—“

“And the experiments. You know, those United Nations scientists are so much more charming than the Interpol hooligans who can’t seem to avoid trampling everything when they go about their quarantining and their sample-collecting. The lino will never be the same.”

“It was a minor miscalculation.”

“It was her favourite jumper.”

“I know.”

“And her grandmother’s teapot.”

“I KNOW!”

“What are those?”

“Appliqué bees.”

“Oh! It’s a hive!”

See what I mean? Blind as a bat, poor soul.

“Do you think it will work, Mr. Hudson?”

“Let’s hope for the best, love.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting my pieces assembled and listening to the Dark One’s foul mouth. Every once in a while, however, she’d stare at me with the tiniest quiver in her bottom lip. “Please let this work.” It broke my heart and put a heavy weight on my shoulders, too. Figuratively, of course. I don’t actually have shoulders.

I was in a box. Then I was in a bag. Finally, as footsteps sounded, I was crammed into the pocket of a coat.

“Hello.”

“Hello. On your way out?”

“No.”

“Right. Um, Sherlock, listen, there’s something I need to say, uh…”

“Here!”

Light of day! Or evening, as it were. That was my first glimpse of the Fair One. She was the most knackered thing I’d ever seen, but, of course, at that point I’d only ever seen two people.

“There’s a teapot, too.”

Mr. Teapot, quite the dandy, all shiny and new, sat proudly on the kitchen table.

“Thank you. Very nice of you. Um, but, Sherlock…”

“I made it. Not the teapot, of course, but…”

The Fair One took me in hand and studied my stitching. “You knit?”

“Yes. I like bees, too.”

The Fair One laughed, and then the Dark One did, too. And, dearie, I hardly believed the change! Gone was the sullen, sulky, sweary child of earlier that day. She was lovely.

“Well, let’s give her a go.” The Fair One turned toward the kitchen and twirled me around her finger until I was quite dizzy, but I still caught the Dark One’s smile. _Quite_ lovely.

* * *

“When did you learn to knit?”

“Eight hours ago.”

The Fair One gave an unladylike snort and lowered her cup. “My mother crocheted. Harry does, too, believe it or not. I wonder if they’d let her have a hook in the centre…”

“I could teach you. To knit.”

“Why?”

“It’s not a wholly unproductive way to spend winter evenings when the criminal classes are hatefully calm and peaceful as they are now.”

The Fair One shrugged. “You as instructor gives me pause.” She lifted Mr. Teapot and me. “More?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m a good teacher when sufficiently motivated.”

“What could possibly motivate you to teach me to knit?”

The Fair One’s eyes were fixed on the stream of dark brown pouring into the cup, so she didn’t see. But I did. It was written plain as day on the Dark One’s face. Besotted. Smitten. Oh my. But by the time the Mister and I were back on the table, the expression was gone.

“It would afford you the opportunity to replace the finest piece of your jumper collection.”

“What did you call it? Revolting oatmeal? Hideous gruel?”

“Unsightly porridge.”

“Right.”

Uh-oh. Things did not look good so I sat up straight, figuratively, and put on as cheery and welcoming an air as I could manage. Then the Fair One touched each bee on my hive, and said, “These are cute. I wouldn’t have thought that ‘cute’ was your area.”

“I am a woman of mystery. And mysteries.”

So cavalier! Only I knew it was pure bravado. There was something in the air, the way they held each other’s gaze. I held my figurative breath.

“And I like detective stories. And detectives. Alright. Teach me to knit, but let’s not start with a jumper. Something easy.”

Yea!

“Scarf?”

“Yeah, like your sexy blue one, but not tonight. I’m beat. Tomorrow night?”

“Fine. I’ll do the washing up.”

The Fair One’s face told me exactly what a novelty _that_ was.

“Thank you. For everything. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Later, just before the Dark One laid me in the drawer, she held me close and whispered, “Well done, you.”

Well done, indeed. And that was just the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Thus, the knitting nights began.

And regardless of the shouting and swearing and slamming of doors that occurred during the day, the pair were on their best behaviour when the needles and yarn came out.

I sat between them. And listened. And learned quite a bit.

For example, which one of them is allergic to smoked fish and which one likes kippers. Which one kept spiders as childhood pets (not the one you’re thinking) and which one has swallowed a three carat diamond (exactly the one you’re thinking). Stories, dear me, enough stories to fill a library!

I quite enjoyed those nights, and I know the girls did, too, because as the black scarf grew longer, more time was spent chatting and drinking tea and less time actually knitting.

But, finally, there was no avoiding it.

“So I guess it’s done.”

“You could add some fringe.”

“Finishing touch might be nice.”

_Beep!_

That noise meant that Mr. Teapot and I would more than likely be abandoned post-haste. And we were. The next knitting night had barely commenced when there was another beep, but this one just elicited some tap-tap-tapping from the Dark One.

“Obvious!”

“I’m guessing that you were right about something.”

“The link between the victims. John, we need to go undercover as a couple seeking instruction at the Splendidly Dancing Studio.” Tap, tap, tap. “There’s a Beginner’s Latin session commencing tomorrow evening, and…” Tap, tap, tap. “…we’re enrolled. You’ll need to buy appropriate footwear in the morning.”

“Wait a minute!” The Fair One dropped the whole business, needles, scarf, and yarn, on the floor. “Do I get a say in all this?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I thought you would want to see someone who’s responsible for taking the three innocent lives identified, captured, and brought to justice.”

“That’s not fair, Sherlock. Why don’t you just give the information to the police—“

“Who do you think just gave the information to me!? One of those instructors is a serial killer.”

“Why do we have to go as a couple? Couldn’t we go as friends?”

“The killer is targeting couples, couples who on the outside appear to be perfectly happy, but on the inside are quite unhappy.”

“Isn’t that every couple? Okay, okay, but it’s going to require some acting on my part.”

At that, the temperature in the room dropped. I hugged Mr. Pot tight.

“Right.” The Dark One’s face was hidden in her cup. “If you balk at the prospect of feigning a romantic interest where there is none, then I’m sure we could…”

“It’s not that, Sherlock. As you know, I’ve had relationships of all kinds, and I am quite comfortable with fielding stares, I mean, who’s going to believe that a goddess like you actually wants to cha-cha with a hobbit like me? Ugh!”

The Fair One had bent to pick up her knitting and, in rising, had soundly knocked her head on the underside of the table, thus, affording the Dark One a few extra moments to rid herself of the charming blush that bloomed across her cheeks.

“I mean that I’m not a beginner dancer.”

The Dark One raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you don’t believe me? Care for a demonstration?”

“Yes.”

Sneaky girl! At that point, the Dark One’s infatuation was evident, but whether the Fair One reciprocated was still a mystery to me.

Cue the music.

“Alright. One rule: I’m leading.”

“Yes, John.”

Cue the dancing.

Oh my, they made such a handsome pair! And moved together as if they’d been doing it their whole lives. Strong arms, graceful feet, and silly grins. I could just imagine them, dressed in finery, tripping the light fantastic in a black-and-white film. When the song ended, there was another and another, until at last, the Fair One dipped the Dark One and held her suspended in a long diagonal.

“So?” Their faces were so close, I thought—who am I kidding?! _hoped!_ —they might kiss.

The Dark One straightened and sniffed. “It’s clear that you’ve no had formal training, but…”

Tsk, tsk.

Upon reply the Faire One looked every bit the soldier. “’Three Continents’ is an underestimate, Sherlock, and dancing’s a fine method of communication when you don’t speak the language. I’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“Good.”

It was plain to see that knitting night was over. The Fair One cleared the table, and the Dark One retreated to the sitting room.

And then I saw it: the Fair One’s face as she turned to pile the cups and saucers in the sink. It was sad. Wistful, even. And I had the sense that there was something I wasn’t privy to, something unsaid, something missing. Something.  

Then there was a silhouette at the far window and a violin mimicking the tune of their last dance. The Dark One turned and glanced toward the kitchen, and I know that she saw the Fair One’s smile because when she stepped back toward the window, she wore a smile of her own.

Well, I thought, it’s something.

* * *

That was the last knitting night at 221B. The scarf is well worn, but remains fringe-less to this day, and it was weeks before I saw the light of day, or evening, as it were. When they finally brought me out, I was quite stiff.

“Well done, us.”

They clinked raised cups.

“What are you going to call this one?”

“The Dancing Meninist?”

“Mm. Fedora. Misogyny.”

Silence. Tea.

“I, uh, want to apologize for the kiss, Sherlock.”

OH MY! How peeved was I that I missed it?!

“I thought I was following your lead, but when I saw your face afterwards, I realized that had bungled it. Improvisation apparently isn’t my forte. I thought if I chat up Belén, then it would look like _I_ was the philanderer. And then you stormed over and—“

“Nonsense. It was a more than adequate distraction, and it helped flush out our killer, didn’t it?”

“If it wasn’t for the case, I mean, I just want you to know that I respect your boundaries; though, God knows, you trample across mine half a dozen times a day. But, it’s not the same. What I mean to say is, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“Right. My boundaries.”

They both set their cups down at the same time.

“Married to your Work?”

Ah, there it was! The missing bit. Now was the time to set the record straight.

“Right. So I am.”

What?!

“Yeah, you looked stunned and wholly uncomfortable. It was fortunate—in a weird way—that Francisco chose that moment to try to kill you because our cover was probably blown at that point. Just a bit.”

“All’s well that ends well. Um, about…”

“Sure is. Three lives avenged. Killer off the streets, or the parquet, as it were. And I have a date tomorrow night!”

Oh no! At that point, I so wished for upper appendages so I could knock some heads together, but as it were, I did the only thing that I could do.

“Christ! This tea went completely cold! How’d that happen?”

Served them right!

* * *

“WHAT THE HELL WAS ALL THAT, SHERLOCK! YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER--!”

_CRASH!_

I shuddered and said a prayer for Teacup Number 2.

“DID YOU GIVE HER FOOD POISONING?!”

“No, her fondness for uncooked seafood gave her food poisoning.”

“THE CEVICHE WAS FINE.”

“The ceviche was decidedly _not_ fine, John. The fact that your plate was farthest away from the heat source in the kitchen staging area only means that it was slightly less not-fine than hers.”

“WHATEVER! AND JUST SO YOU KNOW, YOUR OBSERVATIONS ONLY MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE A HUMONGOUS TWAT AND ME LOOK LIKE ONE FOR KNOWING YOU. IT DID NOTHING FOR MY OPINION OF HER!”

“I thought you’d want to know—“

“AND THAT CASE YOU DRAGGED ME TO WAS A ‘1.’ SOMETHING YOU COULD’VE SOLVED IN YOUR DRESSING GOWN WITH ONE EYE CLOSED. SO, PLEASE, ENLIGHTEN ME AS TO THE BLOODY POINT OF IT ALL?!”

_CRASH!_

Oh no! Saucer Number 2! Though Dark One’s curiosity has been the death of many of us, the Fair One’s temper is nothing to sneeze at. Luckily, I don’t make a satisfying noise when hurled against the wall. I held Mr. Teapot close to stop his chattering. Poor man. He thought he was next!

“Long term, John…”

“WHO THE HELL SAID ANYTHING ABOUT LONG TERM, MAYBE I JUST WANTED—“

“The probability of contracting HSV-2…”

“CHRIST ALMIGHTY! MAYBE I JUST WANTED A PRETTY SMILE AND SOME HAND-HOLDING, MAYBE A LITTLE DANCING—“

“YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DANCING WITH ME!”

They locked eyes.

“Figuratively?”

“LITERALLY, FIGURATIVELY, EVERY FORM AND VARIATION. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING IT WITH ME!”

Silence.

“But what about, you said—“

“THAT WAS A BLOODY LIFETIME AGO! DOESN’T ANYONE CHANGE IN YOUR WORLD?!”

And with that, the Dark One stormed out of the kitchen.

I have learned in my time at 221B that it’s often the small things that change everything, and in that particular instance, the fact that Coat was not on the hook like she normally is, but in the bedroom, meant that the Dark One had to go charging down the hall before she could flee the premises. The Fair One slumped in a chair and looked straight at me.

“What do I do?”

Go after her, you ninny!

She nodded as if she understood and made for the hallway.

“Stop, Sherlock.”

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Move, John!”

“No! We’re going to make a fresh pot and sit down and talk about this.”

“I will move you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Then there were the sounds of scuffling: grunting and swearing and shoes scraping on floorboards and bodies thumping and cries of pain and frustration.

“Get off of me!”

“No! Not ‘til you agree to tea! I care about you, too!”

“Care about me?! Caring isn’t an advantage.”

“Your sister’s a bloody twat, too, you know?”

Silence. And then a tell-tale wet sound. Oh, scones and biscuits! I missed the second kiss, too! All I saw was two pair of feet and the hems of trousers.

“Tea?”

“Okay.”

* * *

“How long?”

“A while.”

“And you didn’t say anything because…?”

The Dark One shrugged.

“I never let myself think about it, Sherlock. You said you weren’t interested in anything like that, and I had to remind myself, over and over, to respect that. So many people want you to be different than you are. This is your home. This is the one place where you should just be accepted, without anyone trying to fix you or shape you into something you’re not.”

“None of us are inert, John. Your very presence is shaping me. Look,” she touched my stitching, “I knit. I never knitted before.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Dancing. No Beléns or Sarahs or Jeanettes. Other than that…” She shrugged again.

“And, uh…” The Fair One made a vague gesture toward the sitting room. “Kissing?”

“Kissing’s good. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to proceeding along the typical trajectory of physical intimacy with a more decelerated pace than your usual one.”

It took the Fair One—and me—a moment to parse the words.

“Slow is good, Sherlock. Slow is perfect, actually because I am about to…”

“…vomit two half-pots of tea and a not insignificant amount of raw fish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The items in the third paragraph come from AtlinMerrick's [Minutiae](http://archiveofourown.org/works/441850/chapters/753972).
> 
> Half a dozen lifetimes ago, someone tried to teach me to knit. I made a black scarf (with fringe!). It was the only thing I ever made.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
